Captivated
by BellatrixLives
Summary: Abigail Hobbs is being held captive by Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She doesn't know what he expects from her, but she knows her only chance of survival is to play the game. If survival is worth it remains to be seen. Picking up from episode 12 (Relevés) of season 1.
1. Chapter One

Abigail sits in a large, porcelain, claw foot tub, with silent tears streaming down her face. The warm water is enveloping her, but doing nothing to soothe her.

_He's going to kill me,_ she thinks, her heart thudding. _He's going to torture me first, and then he_ is _going to kill me_.

Hopelessness swells inside her, a darkness that starts at her core and spreads until she is completely consumed.

_There is no way out. _

She swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

_There is one way… a way out on my own terms. _

Abigail's tears slow and a small, but smug, smirk tugs at her lips. She spreads her arms out and curls her fingers around the edge of the tub.

_Goodbye, Hannibal._

She submerges herself completely into the tub and takes a deep breath, choking as the water fills her lungs. It hurts more than she thought it would, but Abigail fights to keep herself under, inhaling yet again.

Blackness blurs the edge of her vision and she slips towards unconsciousness, her most recent memories playing before her eyes.

**XxX**

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life," Hannibal said sadly, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

Abigail's breath came in short jagged gasps as he pulled her into a hug. Despite her fear of him, Abigail had clung on, desperately hoping Hannibal's solid form would tether her to this world.

She felt a sharp prick in her side, and the next thing she knew, she was waking up in her parent's basement, tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth.

Her eyes darted around the small space; panic seized her as she saw Hannibal standing beneath a single dangling ligtbulb.

He had a regretful expression on his face as he studied her.

"I had hoped you would not wake," he said, approaching her and kneeling by her side. "I do not have any more tranquilizer with me."

Abigail's eyes widened as she looked down and watched him pull a needle from her arm. The needle connected to a long tube, which ran to a bag of blood… _her blood._

Hannibal sat the bag down on the ground next to two more bags of blood.

"I'm afraid this is going to hurt," he sighed, then reached into a small black satchel on the floor and withdrew a scalpel.

Abigail shook her head frantically, the movement made her dizzy and she wondered if it was from the lack of blood.

"You've given me no choice," Hannibal said, grabbing hold of her head and forcing her to turn away from him.

She tried to watch him out of her peripheral vision, her blue eyes almost bugging out to see what he was doing. Abigail caught a silver flash of the scalpel coming down and cried out, but the gag muffled the sound.

White-hot pain scorched the left side of her head and she felt the steady stream of blood as it ran down her face.

Hannibal released her head and stepped in front of her.

"Such a pity," he said sadly, "you have adorable ears."

Then he held her left ear up in front of her so she could see, and Abigail fainted.

The next time she woke she was in the trunk of a car, her hands tied in front of her.

She's not sure how long she had been there, or how long they traveled after she woke, but eventually the car came to a stop. Abigail heard a door slam and then footsteps come around the back of the car. As the trunk unlatched she prepared for action.

When the trunk lid opened and revealed Hannibal standing over her, Abigail kicked her legs out trying to push him away.

Her efforts were ineffectual and he had easily pushed past her flying legs and grabbed hold of her.

"Can you walk?" he asked as he pulled her from the trunk.

As soon as she was on her feet, Abigail pushed into Hannibal knocking him back, and tried to make a run for it. She recognized his house and was thankful to know where she was and which direction would be best to run in. Unfortunately, another wave of dizziness had hit her and she tripped, landing hard on the rough pavement.

"You're not going anywhere, Abigail. I have far too many plans for you."

Hannibal was towering over her in seconds, and sighed as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the house. He took her to the second story level and set her down in the corner of a large, ornately decorated bathroom. The centerpiece of which was a large claw foot tub.

He started the bath water and then crouched before Abigail and unbound her hands and removed her gag.

"You need to get cleaned up," he instructed. "Can you do it yourself, or do you require assistance?"

Abigail shivered uncomfortably.

"I can do it."

"Excellent. I will be just down the hall," he said, a warning in his tone. "There is no way out of here, Abigail, and it would be foolish to try to find one."

She looked up, meeting his dark eyes, and knew that he was referring to more than just the bathroom.

**XxX**

Hannibal was next door in the adjoining bedroom when he heard the water sloshing noisily in the bathroom.

At first he doesn't think anything of it, but as the thrashing continues he decides he better inspect. He throws open the door only to see Abigail, now perfectly still, submerged in the bathtub.

He's across the room in two strides and drops to his knees to pull her from the tub. He lays her on the floor and bends to listen for the sound of breathing.

There isn't any.

"I don't think so, Abigail."

He starts the chest compressions of CPR, his hands slipping on her slick skin.

Abigail starts sputtering and spitting up water. She takes a big gasping breath and her eyes flutter open.

When she sees him there next to her, Abigail gives a strangled cry and tries to back away, but doesn't have the strength.

Hannibal looks her over with interest.

_My frightened little doe._

His eyes rake over her naked form, taking note of the way her skin flushes under his gaze into the most perfect shade of rose. Abigail tries to cover herself with her hands, and Hannibal, gentleman that he is, stands to pass her one of his bathrobes.

She struggles to pull it on and when she does is swimming in it.

"You've caused your ear to start bleeding again," he tuts.

"What ear?" she mumbles, so quiet he barely hears.

Hannibal smirks, enjoying the resurfacing of her normal cheek.

"Come with me," he commands, holding a hand out to her. When she doesn't take it he adds, "if you are still too weak to walk, I can carry you."

This time she does take the proffered hand, and though she is a bit unstable as she rises, she doesn't fall. Abigail is a bit wobbly as he leads her through the door to the adjoining bedroom, and Hannibal wraps his arm around her waist, grasping her firmly by the hip.

His grip feels too familiar on her waist, but Abigail says nothing, letting him lead her to a bed on the far side of the room.

After she is settled safely onto the edge of the bed, Hannibal turns back towards the bathroom, unbuttoning his now drenched vest and dress shirt.

Abigail looks around and finds herself a little surprised by the décor. The room is designed in shades of blue, but there are several things that seem out of place for the doctor's bedroom. For instance the cherry wood vanity and stool across from the bed, make-up and perfume sitting on top of it seems peculiar, and the fresh lilies on the bedside table. The strangest item in the room, however, is the small, delicate, doll relaxing atop a pillow on the bed.

A doll that looks exactly like Abigail.

"I hope you find the room to your liking," Hannibal says, perching on the bed next to her. "I've been working on it for a while."

Abigail nods.

Hannibal is now shirtless, drying himself with a large fluffy towel.

"Y—you've been expecting me?" she asks.

"Not in precisely this manner, but I had been planning to offer you a place to stay after the hospital released you."

Abigail bites her lip and thinks about how wonderful it would have been to be brought to this room as a guest instead of a captive. It is quite a lovely space, much nicer than what she'd had with her parents. And to think she could have been sharing this house with her protector and friend… instead of this mad man, the Chesapeake Ripper.

_Just because you didn't know the truth before doesn't mean you would have been safe, _she reminds herself.

"Let me tend to your ear," Hannibal says, reaching for supplies he had set out on the bedside table.

Abigail pulls her hair to the side, exposing her injury and he sets to work, first cleaning and then bandaging the wound.

"Am I your prisoner?" she asks after he has finished.

Hannibal cocks his head to the side.

"Of course not."

"Then I can leave?"

"Abigail," he sighs, "it is not safe for you to be out there… for either of us."

"So, I _am_ a prisoner," she says, crossing her arms.

Hannibal places his hand on her knee.

"You are so much more."

Abigail scoots away from his touch, refusing to look at him, and therefore missing the angry glint in his eye. Hannibal reaches out and grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"What do you want from me?" she begs.

"I only wish to protect you. To do that, I must reinvent you."

"Are you going to hurt me again?"

She hates the fear that leaks into her voice, but she can't find the will to be strong.

"Only if I must," Hannibal replies.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I've been flying through all the Hannigail fics on this site and couldn't resist giving a try at my own multi-chaptered Hannibal x Abigail story. Please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter Two

"You need to eat something," Hannibal insists, standing up. "You've lost a lot of blood today."

Abigail doesn't say anything, instead she studies the flowered pattern of the blue comforter she's sitting on, and trys to ignore how uncomfortable Hannibal's half-nakedness is making her.

"I'll be right back with some food for you. Please make yourself comfortable. There are pajamas in the bottom drawer," he says pointing to a large cherry wood dresser.

Hannibal is almost out the door when he pauses and turns to look back at her.

"If you try to hurt yourself again, there will be very serious consequences, Abigail. Do you understand?"

Abigail looks up at him timidly and nods.

With that he walks into the hall and closes her door behind him. She can hear a very audible -_click-_ as he locks her in.

Abigail bolts off the bed and starts looking for another way out. There are only two doors in the bedroom, one that leads to the hall, and the one that leads into the bathroom.

She hurries back into the bathroom, careful not to slip in the water all over the floor, and tries the other door in there. She suspects that leads to the hallway as well, but it's locked and she can't get out.

Abigail returns to her new bedroom and goes to the window; it looks out over Hannibal's backyard. The fall would be a long drop, but there are some bushes on the ground below she can just make out.

_Probably safer than staying,_ she thinks.

When she attempts to open the window, though, it won't budge. She tries fiddling with the latch, but it makes no difference. Abigail suspects it must be nailed shut.

_What am I going to do?_

She runs her fingers through her wet, and tangled hair.

_I need to get away, but there's no way out._

Abigail takes a deep breath, trying to figure out all her options.

_I need to figure out what he wants from me. Maybe then I can find a way out of here… a way to escape from not only Hannibal, but also the FBI. He said he wouldn't hurt me unless he had to, so maybe if I play along it won't be so bad._

She rolls her eyes, wondering how she can hold onto such a little piece of hope, when she knows Hannibal is a master of deception.

_It's not like you have many other choices_, she sighs inwardly.

Abigail takes a deep breath. Having a plan of action, no matter how small, lends her strength.

She opens the bottom drawer of the dresser Hannibal pointed out and finds it filled with pajamas. She had been hoping for sweatpants or something she could lose herself in (the more coverage the better), something that would feel like armor, but instead finds the drawer filled with an assortment of short nightgowns.

Repressing a grimace, Abigail drops Hannibal's bathrobe to the ground, pulls out a white baby doll, and slips it over her head. The fabric falls just past mid thigh, leaving her feeling exposed.

She rummages through a couple more drawers and thankfully finds some undergarments. Just as she slips on a pair of cotton underwear she hears footsteps climbing the stairs.

Abigail seats herself at the vanity and begins detangling her hair with an ornate silver hairbrush.

Carefully unlocking Abigail's door, Hannibal feels a rush of satisfaction when it swings open to reveal her sitting at the vanity brushing her hair. He leans against the doorframe, tray of food in hand, and just watches her.

Abigail looks up into the vanity mirror and meets Hannibal's eyes, then sets the brush down and turns to face him.

"Come," he says, "sit on the bed, just this once, mind you, and eat. We can talk if you wish."

He stays where he is, waiting for her to make the first move. When she stands to cross the room, Hannibal can't help but notice how innocent and fragile she looks and he prides himself on his selection of clothing for her.

_I wonder how she would look covered in blood like she was after killing Nick Boyle?_

An image of Abigail flits to the front of his mind, her white nightdress spattered and hands dripping with blood.

Abigail sits on the edge of the bed, and tugs at the hem of her nightdress, trying to pull fabric as far down as it will go. She doesn't see the look of pride in Hannibal's face as he comes to join her; the look a teacher might wear when gazing upon his prize pupil.

He places the tray carefully on her lap, and sits next to her.

"Chicken soup?" she asks, wondering if it is really chicken.

"More broth than anything," he answers. "Your throat will be sore from drowning."

Abigail bites her lip. His tone isn't angry, necessarily, but she can hear the disapproval as clearly as if he had been shouting it.

"I—I'm sorry… about that," she says, looking up at him. "I didn't know what you were planning for me."

_I still don't_, she thinks bitterly, _but whatever it is, I _am _going to survive it._

"Given the situation, I can understand where your concern may have stemmed from, but what you did was inexcusable," Hannibal reprimands. "Life is precious, Abigail. You must never harm yourself again."

"I won't."

He stares into her eyes for a moment and must find what he's looking for because he nods and glances away.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

She does as she's told and finds that she is actually quite hungry. The broth stings on the way down and the meat and vegetables scratch against her raw throat uncomfortably, but it doesn't take her long to finish the bowl.

"Would you like some more?" he asks.

"No, thank you. I would like to get some rest though."

Hannibal stands up and takes the tray from her.

"Your bathroom is stocked with all the essentials. Why don't you ready yourself for bed while I take care of these dishes, and I'll bring you something to help you sleep?"

"Oh, I really don't need—"

"Abigail, I insist. It will help with the pain of your ear, and ensure you get a full night's rest."

Before she can offer any more protest, Hannibal is out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

Abigail sighs, exhausted, and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she opens the cabinet she finds it is indeed well stocked. There are several toothbrushes with different bristle strengths all still in their packaging, toothpaste, four different brands of facial cleanser, and a large array of feminine hygiene products.

_How long is he planning for me to be here?_

She tries not to think of it, and busies herself getting ready for bed.

Abigail has just pulled the covers back, after hiding that creepy doll likeness of herself in a drawer, and is climbing into bed when Hannibal returns.

He brings her a glass of water and two tiny blue pills.

"Take these," he commands.

Reluctantly, Abigail takes the glass and the drugs from him. She pops the pills into her mouth and tucks them under her tongue before taking a swig of water and putting the glass on her nightstand.

"Good girl," he says, smiling.

Then Hannibal bends over and tucks the blankets around her.

"Goodnight, Abigail."

He places a kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, Hannibal."

He turns the lights off as he leaves, the room plunging into darkness. The only light is from the moonlight streaming in the window.

Abigail spits the slightly soggy pills into her hand and tucks them between the mattress and the bed frame.

_I am not taking any damn sleeping pills in this house._

She lies back and stares up at the ceiling, wondering what tomorrow will bring, and just what Hannibal meant when he said he needed to reinvent her.

She's not sure how long she lies there, thinking about the mess her life has become, before she hears the bedroom door unlock.

Abigail's heart stops.

The doorknob jangles and the hinges creak slightly.

She closes her eyes and tries to regulate her breathing. She would bet anything that had she taken those pills she would be dead to the world by now, metaphorically speaking, with no clue someone is in her room.

Footsteps come around her side of the bed and, unable to resist, she peeks out from under her lashes. Hannibal's unmistakable form is towering over her.

After a moment he turns away and she thinks he is leaving, but instead he walks to her vanity and pulls the chair out, turning it to face her, and takes a seat.

Abigail forces her breathing to remain even, realizing as she does so she can make out Hannibal's own breathing. Deep and even.

Her body is tense and she counts to ten, urging herself to relax and act natural.

When she relaxes, Abigail can feel the weight of her day hitting her. She can feel sleep calling her, tugging at her consciousness, but she tries to resist.

It's no use.

Abigail drifts off to sleep, still listening to the sound of Hannibal's breathing, and feeling his eyes on her.

When she wakes up in the morning there is no sign of him, or any hint that he was there at all. She almost wonders if she dreamt him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'll be updating this fic at least once a week (usually Sunday or Monday) but on occasion I may get an update out early. Please, please, please review! I love to know what you guys are thinking! There are so few Hannigail shippers out there and we need to stick together! If anyone is interested, my tumblr is allons-ymrholmes. I post a lot of Hannibal stuff, but a lot of Game of Thrones and other random stuff as well. Come check me out!


	3. Chapter Three

Abigail's ear is throbbing painfully when she sits up in bed, and she curses under her breath in a very unladylike fashion. Tossing back the covers, she hobbles out of bed, her joints stiff from her traumatic day yesterday.

She ambles into the bathroom and pulls open the medicine cabinet hoping to find some type of painkiller in there. The only thing Abigail finds is a box of Midol and a travel size bottle of Motrin.

She groans when she sees it's only 200mg Motrin.

Abigail opens the bottle and dry swallows four of the little pills, then cranks the sink on and drinks straight from the faucet.

The pills hurt going down more than she expected.

_Oh, yeah. The whole drowning thing,_ she reminds herself sarcastically. _That was a dumb idea._

She doesn't mean just the suicide part, but thinking she could actually manage to drown herself in a bathtub.

When she returns to the bedroom, Abigail notices a sheet of paper resting on the floor in front of the door.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_I wish I were able to be there when you wake, but alas, I have a busy schedule this morning. You see I'm about to receive the tragic news of your death. This will cause me great distress and therefore I will be allowed to shirk my duties in favor of grieving and will be home in time for lunch. _

_If you look in the bottom drawer of your vanity you will find some vacuum-sealed homemade granola bars. This should be a suitable breakfast for today. I will make it up to with a nice big meal when I return. _

_Do try to get some rest today._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

_P.S. If you decide to hurt yourself, or make another attempt on your life, I will kill Alana Bloom. I know you are fond of her, and while I myself am fond of Dr. Bloom, this is the only way I know to guarantee your safety. I am a man of my word Abigail. Do not test me._

Tears sting her eyes as she reads his note. Even if she could bring herself to try to commit suicide again, Abigail knows she couldn't do it at the risk of Alana's life. Alana was very kind to her, and always stood up for her. She had tried to protect Abigail form Jack Crawford even when she suspected Abigail had been hiding something.

Alana is a good person, and Abigail cannot be the cause of Dr. Bloom's death. She doesn't doubt Hannibal's words for a second.

There really is no way out.

_You are just going to have to play along and see what happens. If you play the game, there's a chance you could win. _

The first thing she does after reading the letter, is try the bedroom door. It's locked just as she suspected it would be.

Sighing, she decides to dig out one of the granola bars mentioned.

She inspects the bar wondering if it's completely vegetarian, or if she's holding puree of someone who pissed off Hannibal. Abigail rips it open, sniffs it, and decides she is far too hungry to be picky.

_It tastes like a regular granola bar._

She strolls around the room as she eats, looking through drawers and inspecting everything. The dresser is filled with clothing in her size, though nothing she would normally wear.

Abigail is a hunter. She grew up in a small town. She's a blue jean kind of girl. All of the clothing Hannibal has provided her is dressy, even the "casual" stuff. Aside from two, tailored looking, pant suits, the rest of her new wardrobe consists of dresses.

_Cocktail dresses, sweater dresses, skirts and blouses…_

Aside from the impractical clothing, Abigail notices one other glaring problem… there is no form of entertainment anywhere in the room. No books, no mp3 player, no paper or pens.

_What the hell am I supposed to do all day?_

Abigail groans and plops down into the chair at the vanity. She groans even louder when she sees her reflection.

Her skin is even paler than usual, there are huge purple bags under her eyes, and her hair is atrocious.

There are many different make-up products arranged artfully on the vanity's surface. Everything she would need to stop herself from looking like a zombie, but she wonders why she should even bother.

Abigail picks up a delicate glass bottle of some expensive looking perfume and twirls it between her fingers. The name is in another language and she has no idea how to pronounce it.

_You should clean yourself up, because that's what he wants,_ she thinks suddenly. _Why else would Hannibal spend all this money on this crap? He knows I don't wear stuff like this. He said he wants to reinvent you. So let him. Or at least let him think you are letting him._

Hating herself for doing exactly what he wants, but knowing it's her best and only plan, Abigail starts doing her make-up. She's careful not to overdo it; just enough to keep her looking human, with a dash of blush and light glaze of lip-gloss.

Next she works on her hair. She is pleased to find a straightening iron in the bathroom, a really nice one with real ceramic plates. She straightens her hair with it, glad to be able to hide the thick white gauze covering her ear, or what's left of it.

It makes her ill to think of the missing appendage.

Finally she searches for the perfect outfit. She almost puts on a slinky black cocktail dress, but realizes she doesn't want him to know she's trying so hard. Instead, Abigail selects a gray sweater dress with a belted waist and a turtleneck. It's hardly the denim armor she longs for, but the turtleneck hides her scar and gives her a little sense of security.

After that she has nothing to do but wait for Hannibal to return. She's not even sure what time it is. There's no clock in the room.

Abigail paces back and forth, refusing to hold still. She doesn't want to think too much. If she does she'll focus on her current situation and her chest will start to hurt. She has to give herself little task after little task, because thinking of the big picture is overwhelming.

_Forty steps from the bathroom door to the far wall. Seventeen from the hall door to the outside wall. _

She's not sure how many times she walks those same two paths before she hears the front door slam.

_Time to play._

Hannibal hums softly to himself as he enters the house. Today played out just as he expected it would, and he's always in a good mood when things go as planned.

Sadly, he had to throw Will Graham under the bus, something he'd rather not have done. After all, Will is one of the most interesting patients Hannibal's ever had. But it was either Will or Hannibal and Abigail, and what was one life to protect two?

Hannibal was a little surprised when Alana showed up at his office in person to tell him of Abigail's murder and of Will's guilt. She was shocked and saddened, but didn't question that it was the truth.

He had played his part well, first expressing stunned disbelief and then devastated silence. Alana had tried to comfort him, saying no one saw what was happening to Will, but Hannibal sent her away. Told her he needed time.

She told him she understood, and that she knew how close he was with Will and how close he had grown to Abigail.

After that, Hannibal had canceled the rest of his appointments and hurried home to his waiting prodigy.

He hangs his coat and takes the stairs two at a time, eager to check Abigail has not hurt herself again. Hannibal is fairly certain his threat did the trick, but wants to be reassured by his own eyes.

When he unlocks the door he finds Abigail leaning against the window, looking out on the yard. She turns around when she hears him enters and gives him an unsure expression.

Abigail is wearing one of the dresses he bought her and has even done her hair and make-up. She looks lovely… and he is completely surprised. Not that she is lovely, he's always recognized that, but that she so willingly made herself up. He half expected to find her moping in bed still in her nightclothes.

"You look very nice," he says, "especially for a dead girl."

"So it's official?" she asks, swallowing loudly.

"Abigail Hobbs was murdered in her childhood home. The amount of blood makes it rather obvious, though the only body part they could find was an ear. It was coughed up by her murderer, Will Graham."

"Poor Will," she says quietly, turning back towards the window.

Hannibal quietly crosses the room to stand behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens slightly, but doesn't cringe away which he takes as a good sign.

"It was him, or both of us," he insists.

"Does he know it was you who set him up?"

"No. He doesn't know he was set up. He believes he killed you."

She bows her head at this, and Hannibal wonders if she is going to cry. He knows she cares for Will.

Instead she surprises him.

"I guess that makes things easier," she says turning back around.

Their chests are only separated by a few measly inches, something they are both acutely aware of.

Abigail looks up at him and gives him the tiniest smirk.

"What's for lunch?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hope you are still enjoying this! Please let me know what you think in the reviews! Just a reminder, updates will be coming once a week, or on rare occasions (like this) they might come sooner.


	4. Chapter Four

Hannibal leads Abigail downstairs, heading for the kitchen, and with every step further away from the bedroom, Abigail feels herself grow more tense. She's resigned to let things play out as they will, but her fight or flight instinct is flaring and urging for her to try to escape. She pushes the thought away and takes slow steady breaths.

When they enter the gleaming and pristine kitchen Hannibal signals for her to take a seat in the corner of the room.

"Can't I help with anything?" she asks, her voice huskier than usual due to the soreness lingering in her throat.

Hannibal frowns slightly; concerned Abigail's drowning may have done more damage than he previously thought. She seems fine otherwise, so he decides to hold off examining her.

"You can wash and chop the romaine," he instructs. "I thought we would have something light, chicken caesar salad, for lunch, and for dinner I will make a large welcome home feast. How does that sound?"

Abigail forces herself to smile, hoping it looks more natural than it feels.

"That sounds lovely," she tells him, then glances at the ground, "it's nice to have a home to be welcomed into."

Hannibal strides over to her side and takes her hand.

"Abigail, you will always have a home here… a home with me."

This time she can't think of the right words, so instead of talking she gives him small smile, nods, and slips her hand from his so she can get the lettuce from the fridge.

They work in silence, for a spell, Abigail chopping and slicing while Hannibal pan-fries slices of what he says is chicken.

Finally, she can't take the quiet.

"How is Dr. Bloom?" she asks, aiming to sound casual, but utterly failing.

"I didn't harm her, if that's what you are asking."

"No, of course not. I didn't hurt myself, and I do trust you are a man of your word, so I know you wouldn't harm her." _Unless you deem it necessary,_ she thinks. "I was just wondering, how she is taking the news? I know she has, or had, feelings for Will. It must be terrible for her to think of him as a killer."

"Very astute," Hannibal commends.

"I wouldn't call it astute," she says smartly, "I think the only ones who don't know Will and Dr. Bloom are in love are Will and Dr. Bloom."

Hannibal chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose that is true," he concedes. "Alana is very troubled about the situation. She is heartbroken about your loss, and she feels as if she failed both you and Will. She is, however, holding up rather well. She is a strong woman."

Abigail senses the pride in his voice and briefly wonders how close his relationship with Dr. Bloom is, or was, in the past.

"Why don't you toss that salad with the homemade dressing in the fridge? The meat is almost ready."

They eat lunch in silence, Hannibal watching Abigail's every move, and taking note of the way she picks around the "chicken".

She can feel his eyes on her and makes herself stab a piece of the questionable meat with her fork.

_It's chicken,_ she tells herself, _it's just chicken._

She meets Hannibal's gaze as she takes a bite and he gives her a satisfied smile.

After lunch Abigail insists on doing the dishes.

"Please," she says, taking his dish from him, "you've already done so much for me today. Let me help out."

Begrudgingly Hannibal agrees.

"I suppose. I have to do some preparation for dinner anyway. We can work together."

She tries to look pleased by this, but on the inside Abigail is struggling. She was hoping he would leave her to wash dishes in peace so she could compose herself. She's barely started, but Abigail is already feeling the toll of playing along with whatever game Hannibal has initiated.

Cranking the water as hot as it will go, Abigail fills the sink and begins scrubbing up their lunch dishes. Her movements are harsh and determined, trying to push away her roiling emotions.

She wants to collapse and mourn. Mourn the loss of her innocence, stolen by her father when he made her a murder accomplice, mourn the loss of her identity, torn away from her by Hannibal and his knife, mourn the loss of Will and Dr. Bloom, taken from her and from each other because they were too close to ground zero when everything exploded.

_Mourn my ear_, she thinks, feeling childish.

What is one ear when balanced next to the rest of her list?

She doesn't realize she's crying into the dishwater until Hannibal is beside her, taking the frying pan from her, and drying her hands with a kitchen towel.

"Shh," he coos, pulling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest. "Tell me what is wrong. Why do you cry?"

She can't prevent the bubble of hysterical laughter that bursts from her chest.

_How can he even ask me that?_

_Pull yourself together,_ she urges.

"I'm sorry," she says, letting her body relax into his. "I'm just… overwhelmed. The last few days have been a lot to handle."

"You have done as well as can be expected, perhaps even moreso," Hannibal insists.

His hand starts to rub comforting circles on her back.

"I can't compartmentalize things the way you do," she says. "I know everything you've done for me… for _us_, is for the best, and I am so very thankful. It's just… I care about Will, and about Dr. Bloom, and I know you do as well. How do you stop yourself from feeling guilty?"

Abigail leans back so she can look up into Hannibal's eyes, but he keeps his arms wrapped protectively around her.

"I never feel guilty. I do however harbor regret, on occasion, though probably not as much as the average human being. I regret what was done to Will, and in turn Alana, but I do not feel guilt over this. It is a cruel, harsh world, Abigail, and only the strong survive. You cannot be strong if you are riddled with guilt."

Hannibal places a gentle hand on her cheek.

"You must realize there is no guilt in being a survivor," he says. "I think you could use a rest. Why don't you retire to my study and I'll bring you some tea?"

"Can I have chamomile? No psychedelic mushrooms?"

"Whatever you like," he replies with a smirk.

Abigail goes to the study, glad to have a moment to alone, but cursing herself for being so weak as to have a breakdown with Hannibal in the room.

_You have to be stronger! You need to be in control or he will figure out you are just playing along._

She dabs at her eyes and wipes her cheeks, trying to rid herself of all signs of crying without smudging her makeup. Abigail paces the room, reading the titles of Hannibal's extensive book collection, trying to prevent herself from thinking too much.

"Find anything that stands out to you?" Hannibal asks, his voice coming from very close behind her, making her jump.

"All of them stand out to me," she says, turning to face him. "I would have loved to have any of these today. It was a little boring in my room."

Hannibal passes her a cup of tea and frowns.

"I'm so sorry, I must have overlooked leaving you entertainment. Please, feel free to help yourself to my collection. Is there anything else you might like to help pass the time?"

"I like to draw," she answers after a moment's consideration. "A sketch book and some pencils would be nice."

"That is something I have an abundance of."

Abigail wonders if he is going to hover around and watch her, but Hannibal leaves her to her own devices almost immediately.

A short while later he returns carrying an armful of art supplies.

"Do you have any books you'd like to bring upstairs with you?"

She makes a hasty selection and Hannibal signals for her to follow him. He takes her upstairs and Abigail feels confinement settling around her when she steps back into her gilded cage.

Hannibal puts the sketch paper and array of pencils on her bedside table and Abigail carefully aligns the books she chose on top of her dresser.

"How is your ear feeling?" he asks. "I'd like to take a look at it if you don't mind."

"It's throbbing a bit," she admits, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. "It hurt pretty bad this morning. I took some of the Motrin you put in the bathroom."

Hannibal sits down beside her and brushes her back behind her shoulder. His fingers are slow and deliberate, brushing along her jawline in gentle caress. Abigail has to resist a shiver she feels run down her spine.

He removes the bandage covering her wound and carefully prods the area, causing her to wince. Hannibal puts a reassuring hand, the one not poking her missing ear, on her leg.

"It isn't infected, and that is the most important thing."

He gets up and crosses the room, going into the bathroom to collect clean gauze and tape to make her a new bandage. When he starts to patch her up it doesn't take him long. As soon as the new gauze is secure Abigail shakes her hair forward to hide it.

"I'll bring you some more painkillers in a little while. First, though, I must make a quick trip to the store. I need fresh crème for dessert tonight."

"Thank you."

Hannibal gives her a small smile and then leans down suddenly to give her a kiss on the forehead.

"I'll be back soon," he says, standing up.

She hears the lock click loudly as he closes the door on his way out.

_At least he won't be gone long,_ she thinks, and then wonders if it is a good sign that she sees that as a relief.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry about the delay! Please let me know what you think, reviews are always welcome and appreciated!


	5. Chapter Five

Hannibal wasn't lying about needing crème from the store, but he could have gone without it tonight. The truth is he wants to surprise Abigail with a gift.

In his office he has a beautiful old book that focuses on the art of sketching. He didn't know Abigail liked to draw, or he would have brought it home sooner. Hannibal can't help but smile as he climbs the steps to his office building, thinking about how much Abigail will enjoy the gift.

He's so preoccupied thinking of his new ward, that he doesn't immediately notice the slight breeze in his office. Hannibal crosses to his desk and sits down, pulling out the book to flip through the pages. He wants to be sure it's as good as he remembers.

_Creak._

A soft creak and a strong gust of wind carrying the smell of cheap aftershave sets him on edge.

_Will._

X

Abigail plops down on the bed, spreading her new art supplies out in front of her. She's not a great artist, in her opinion, but she loves drawing to pass the time.

Staring down at the blank paper, Abigail contemplates what to draw. She chews on the end of her pencil absentmindedly, a bad habit she can never quite shake, and sighs.

Eventually she settles on a self-portrait and grabs a small compact mirror off her vanity to help her. She never used to need a mirror next to her when drawing self-portraits, but she feels like a completely different person from who she was just days ago. Abigail half expects not to recognize the girl in the mirror.

_Still looks like me, _she thinks, and then turns her head to see the bandage on her ear. _Well, almost._

X

"Take me to Minnesota," Will says, "I want to see where Abigail died."

Hannibal looks across at Will, sitting in the chair he'd spent so much time in during their therapy sessions. Will is sweaty, and twitchy, his illness more pronounced than ever. His skin is sallow and sickly, the prison orange of his jump suit doing nothing to aid his complexion.

"Will, you are wanted by the FBI," Hannibal replies, voice soft. "Even if I thought it would somehow be beneficial to your therapy, I can't just take you—"

In a flash Will draws a gun from his pocket, and aims it Hannibal halfheartedly.

"Take me to Minnesota."

Hannibal studies Will calculatingly. In any other circumstance he would still say no, knowing that Will Graham is not a murderer, but with the fever flaring through his body, who knows what Will is capable of?

_Abigail is alone and waiting for you._

He could overpower Will, and take the gun, but that runs the risk of Hannibal having to injure, and possibly kill, the other man… and he knows that will drive Abigail out of reach.

"Let's go to Minnesota," he says, all the while hoping for Jack Crawford to burst in and stop them.

Unfortunately, he doesn't.

X

It's not until after sunset Abigail truly starts to wonder what's keeping Hannibal. Her stomach growls loudly, demanding a more hearty fare after her light breakfast and lunch.

She tries working on her sketch some more, but her gurgling insides distract her and Abigail decides to have another granola bar from the small stash in her drawer.

A few more hours pass and Abigail starts pacing, feeling anxious.

_It can't take this long just to go to the store. Something must be wrong! Maybe someone found out that Hannibal framed Will. Maybe he's been arrested!_

That thought turns her stomach.

_If he's been arrested, how long will it be before they search his house? _

She's not sure which terrifies her more, the thought of the FBI finding her, or the thought of the FBI _not_ finding her.

Abigail stands at her window staring out at the backyard, watching for any signs of headlights from the front of the house.

_He wasn't arrested, _she reassures herself, _he's far too smart for that. Hannibal probably just had a patient emergency and will be home late._

Her stomach growls again and Abigail eats another granola bar. There's one left in the drawer, and she decides to save it for later.

She paces the room, her new books and art supplies sitting completely ignored. Abigail stays up until her eyes are itchy and watering, and her ear throbbing painfully. She goes to the bathroom and takes the rest of the Motrin, hoping it will mask the pain enough that she can sleep.

Her mind races as she lies in bed, all thoughts of the horrible things that might have happened running through her head. She eventually finds sleep, but it's fitful and she wakes in the morning feeling worse than she did before.

The first thing she does when she climbs out of bed is check her door to see if Hannibal has left another note, but there is no sign of one and no sign that he has been back at all. Abigail presses her good ear against the door, listening for sounds of movement in the house. There are none.

She chews her lower lip and tries to ignore her grumbling stomach.

_He'll be back soon_, she tries to convince herself.

Abigail settles back onto the bed and continues her drawing, letting her mind wander as she does so. When she actually zones back in on what she's doing she scowls and slams the drawing on her bedside table.

X

Hannibal and Will don't arrive at Abigail's old house in Minnesota until almost nine the next morning, and Hannibal is feeling exhausted by the almost eighteen hour drive. He refuses to let it show, though, holding his head high and remaining composed as he and Will make their way through the house.

Being here, where Abigail was supposedly murdered, seems to make things click for Will. Hannibal can practically hear the synapses firing as everything falls into place.

"—The scales have fallen from my eyes. I can see you now," Will says, turning the gun on Hannibal.

"What do you see?" Hannibal asks, his professional curiosity almost bursting.

"You called here that morning. Abigail knew. You kept her secrets, until—un-until what? She found out some of yours?"

Hannibal tries to change the subject, and steer their conversation away from Abigail, but Will only grows more incensed. The danger signs are stacking up, but Hannibal doesn't see a clear way to get out of the situation without having to kill Will. Then, he hears the front door creak open and someone tiptoe up the stairs.

Jack Crawford steps into the room just in time to shoot Will and stop him from shooting Hannibal in the head.

Will collapses in the corner, muttering just like Garret Jacob-Hobbs.

"See? See?"

X

As the day wears on Abigail's fear grows, and she again starts running through plausible scenarios.

_Maybe he was in an accident. If he's in the hospital no one will think to check here and I could be stuck here, wasting away, without anyone even knowing._

Her stomach turns from equal parts nerves and hunger.

Just yesterday Abigail had been in this room wishing for books or paper, and now that she has them she can't focus enough to read or draw. She again begins to pace the room, counting her steps.

_He has to come back. I need him._

Around noon Abigail eats her last granola bar and follows it up with as much water as she can drink from the bathroom faucet. It leaves her feeling full and uncomfortable, but after an hour and three trips to the bathroom to pee, she feels empty and hungry again.

When the sun starts to set, dipping low behind the trees outside her window, Abigail decides she can't take the waiting. Consciousness is driving her mad, and her ear hurts almost too much to bear.

Remembering her first night in the room, Abigail sits on the edge of her bed and reaches between the mattress and frame to pull out two tiny blue pills. Then, without thinking about what consequences it might bring, she pops them in her mouth and dry swallows them.

She changes from her rumpled sweater dress and slips into another of the nightgowns from the dresser. Her eyes are almost to heavy to hold open by the time she makes it back to the bed, and Abigail doesn't even pull a blanket over herself before she is asleep.

X

Hannibal is exhausted when he finally pulls into his driveway. It's just after four in the morning, almost forty hours since he told Abigail he was running to the store.

Jack had insisted on questioning Hannibal far longer than necessary, and had almost made him stay in Minnesota another day, worrying the drive would be too much. Hannibal had promised to stop at a hotel on his journey home, but that was just to get Jack off his back. He couldn't stop; Abigail is relying on him.

Not even pausing to take off his coat when he gets inside the house, Hannibal heads upstairs to check on Abigail. He listens outside her room, but doesn't hear anything.

When he unlocks the door and cracks it open the hall light streams in to reveal her sleeping form on top of her comforter. Hannibal almost closes the door again to let her sleep, but changes his mind at the last second, knowing she must be hungry.

He turns the lamp on her bedside table on and pauses, looking down on her. She looks so peaceful in sleep.

She's wearing a deep blue nightgown, the color making her pale skin glow. Abigail is lying on her side and the chiffon material of the gown is bunched up revealing a long expanse of milky white thigh. Her dark hair is fanned out on the pillow and Hannibal can't help but sit beside her and twist a silky lock around his finger.

He sighs and releases the small curl, then places a hand on her arm.

"Abigail," he says quietly, not wishing to startle her.

She murmurs, but doesn't wake.

"Abigail, I'm home."

Her eyelids start to flutter, but she seems to be having a hard time waking up, almost as if she has taken a sleeping aid.

_There were not any in the bathroom, _he thinks. _She's only had— the ones the first night._ _She didn't take them. Clever girl._

He frowns as her eyes drift closed again.

_The pills should not make her this exhausted._

_Though, if you take them on an empty stomach…_

"Abigail, wake up. You need to eat something."

She finally seems to wake, grogginess clouding her face.

"Hannibal?" she croaks.

"Yes. I'm here."

Her eyes widen and her hand reaches out to grab hold of him.

"You're back," she says, and he finds himself fighting a smirk at the relief in her tone. "I was so worried."

Though her voice is thick from sleep, Abigail's grasp on him is firm, her fingers twisting the fabric of his coat sleeve as if he'll slip away if she doesn't hold on tight.

"I apologize for worrying you. I'm afraid my absence was unavoidable. I will do everything in my power to avoid another situation of the kind."

She doesn't say anything, instead just staring at him, wide eyes trying to decipher… _something._

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

In reply, Abigail's stomach growls loudly.

"As am I," Hannibal says standing up, arm still clamped in her vice like grip. "Let's go downstairs and I'll whip us up something."

Abigail's legs are unsteady and Hannibal wonders if he may have misjudged the dose of the pills he gave her. He helps her to the kitchen and leaves her sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

She seems reluctant to let go of him, and Hannibal wonders if his absence has triggered some sort of emotional break down.

Her eyes follow his every move as he goes about making them something to eat.

_If she thought something happened to me, arguably the last person she has to rely on, it could have triggered a psychotic episode. Then again, it may just be lingering remnants of the sleeping pills she took._

He's not sure which would be more preferable to him.

Too tired to bother with an elaborate meal, Hannibal settles for frying up a couple of "steaks" and steams some fresh vegetables. He still takes time to artfully plate the meal; he could never be too tired for proper presentation.

When they sit down in the dining room to eat, Abigail doesn't show any of the hesitation over the meat as she did before. She is too hungry to care. Hannibal smiles approvingly as he pours them each a glass of red wine.

"Thank you," she finally says, pausing halfway through her meal. "It's delicious."

"I'm sure anything would taste delicious after fasting for so long, but thank you."

"Where were you?" she asks, biting her lip. "I thought you had been in an accident. Or…. arrested."

"I was at your old home. With Will."

Hannibal tells her all about Will showing up at his office, drawing a gun on him, and forcing Hannibal to take him to Minnesota.

"I'm— I'm glad you're okay," Abigail says, not meeting his eyes.

"I imagine it must be a relief knowing you won't be trapped in that room waiting to see if I'll come back."

"Well, yes… but I'm just glad you're okay."

She still refuses to look at him, perhaps embarrassed by the admission. Abigail picks up her wine glass and drains it, then turns her attention back to her meal.

By the time they finish, both are about to fall asleep into their plates. Hannibal clears the table, leaving dirty dishes in the sink for what may very well be the first time in his life. When he walks back into the dining room, Abigail is asleep with her head on the table.

Smiling softly, Hannibal scoops her up into his arms to carry her upstairs. Her arms come up to wrap around his neck, and when he tries to place her in bed she clings to him sleepily.

"Don't leave me," she murmurs, eyes still closed. "I don't want to be alone."

He hesitates suspecting this sudden need for him has more to do with the pills and the wine than her actual want of him to stay.

"Please?" she asks.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replies.

Kicking off his shoes, Hannibal climbs into bed with Abigail, grateful he took his vest and tie off when making dinner. Abigail curls against his chest as he pulls the blankets up to cover them.

As he leans to turn off the bedside lamp Hannibal sees a sketch Abigail must have drawn while he was gone. It's a self-portrait, and it almost breaks his heart to look at it. The sketched Abigail is wearing a look of sadness and loneliness, and she's surrounded by darkness.

Hannibal flips the switch on the lamp and pulls Abigail closer.

_You are not alone in the darkness, I'm right beside you._

* * *

**Author's**** Note:** Okay, so this is the longest chapter to date, by almost a thousand words, but there wasn't a good place to cut it off and I didn't figure you guys would mind. As you may have noticed, this takes place during the season 1 finale, and some of the dialogue was taken directly from the show. As always, reviews are much appreciated, I love hearing your thoughts on how things are progressing!


	6. Chapter Six

Abigail is surprised when she wakes the next morning, and more than a little embarrassed.

She is the first one to wake up finding herself curled against Hannibal, her head on his chest and hands grasping his shirt. The steady rise and fall of his chest tells her he's still sleeping. She supposes he probably didn't get much rest the last two days.

Memories of last night start to surface and Abigail feels mortified when she remembers asking him to stay with her.

_Oh god. It must have been the pills and the wine_, she thinks, ignoring the nagging sense she gets when lying to herself.

Keeping still, Abigail tries to organize her thoughts before alerting Hannibal she's awake. When she glances at the opposite side of the room her heart skips a beat.

_The door is open._

This is her chance. If she could just slip out of bed unnoticed, Abigail could get out the door, lock it behind her and make it out of the house. Perhaps without Hannibal even noticing. Her body tenses, and she can hear the blood pounding in her ears.

She wants nothing more than to be away from this place… from this man.

_Or do I, _she wonders.

_Where will I go? To Alana? That would just put her in danger. Will is in jail. My best friend is dead. I have no family. I would have no one to run to, except maybe the FBI and Jack Crawford wants me behind bars._

Without realizing it, Abigail's grip on Hannibal's shirt tightens.

_I have no one. No one but Hannibal, and I have no idea what he wants from me. He has to want something, right? Men like him don't act without purpose. _

The urge to flee slowly dwindling, Abigail keeps her eyes on the door, indecision lining her face.

_He must be starting to trust me; otherwise he wouldn't have stayed with me. If I just stay a while longer I can find out what he wants, and if I don't like it there will be other chances to escape._

Sighing lightly, she loosens her grip on Hannibal's shirt and rubs her hand across his shirt to flatten the wrinkles she'd made.

When she glances up at his face, Abigail is startled to see his eyes are open and watching her intently.

"Good morning, Abigail."

She pulls away from him, self-consciously and averts her gaze.

"Good morning," she replies quietly.

Hannibal shifts so they are both lying on their sides, facing each other.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, his voice low and tinged with that 'just woke up' huskiness.

"I slept well, thank you," she mumbles, still not meeting his gaze. "I hope you weren't too uncomfortable. It was rude of me to ask you to stay."

"I was quite comfortable. And I don't think it was rude. You were very tired, and had just been through yet another traumatic experience by thinking you'd been abandoned. It is okay to need someone, Abigail. You don't have to be alone."

Abigail doesn't say anything, though she does finally look up, her eyes meeting his. His dark eyes still hold the edge, the intensity, they always do, but there is something else there too. A softness she's never noticed before.

Just a glimmer and then it's gone, and he slips back behind his mask.

"I need to go out today," Hannibal says, after checking his watch. "I have to run by my office and then make some inquiries about what is happening to Will."

Abigail tenses.

"You have to go?"

The question is past her lips before she can stop herself.

Hannibal reaches up and places a large hand against her cheek, his thumb tracing her face lightly.

"I will be back before nightfall, I promise."

She swallows loudly and nods.

"Good girl. Now, why don't you go enjoy a bath and I'll whip you up something before I go."

"Okay."

Abigail doesn't even pause to think before complying. She climbs out of bed, tugging the hem of her nightgown down self-consciously, and patters into the bathroom.

Hannibal watches her go with a smirk on his face. He is starting to think Will dragging him to Minnesota was the best thing that could have happened.

Hannibal had seen the way Abigail was studying the door this morning, her face clearly giving away her thoughts. She saw her opportunity, and yet she had not taken it. Still, he can't be certain it was out of any loyalty to him, or just the fact she was scared to make an attempt with him right there.

His instincts are leaning towards her not _wanting_ to go, but that doesn't make Hannibal foolish enough to give her free reign of the house while he is gone.

The bathwater running from the next room jolts his attention back and Hannibal climbs out of Abigail's bed. He pops next door to his room and takes a speedy shower before dressing and heading down to the kitchen.

Hannibal prepares Abigail a simple, though larger than necessary breakfast, and places it on a platter to take upstairs.

She's still in the tub when he walks into her room, he can hear the water sloshing lazily. Hannibal sets the tray on her bed, then scrawls out a quick note on a piece of sketching paper.

He is getting ready to leave, but has another thought.

When he finishes Hannibal closes and locks Abigail's bedroom door behind him, and heads out to complete his errands.

Abigail hears the door close in the next room, and panic starts to flutter in her chest. She climbs out of the tub and throws on a robe without even pausing to dry herself.

When she walks back into the bedroom Abigail finds a lidded silver platter, a note, and a dress on her bed.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_I swear to be back before nightfall this evening, do not fret. I have made you brunch, I hope it is to your liking. I have also laid out a dress for you for tonight. After all, I do owe you a feast._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

Abigail lifts the tray to find it laden with eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and several warm croissants. Her stomach growls at the sight and grabs a roll immediately.

_I wonder how long it will take to look at food without feeling like I should store it for winter,_ she thinks sarcastically.

As she tears of bits of the croissant, Abigail turns her attention to the dress Hannibal chose for her for the evening. It's the slinky black one she had considered her first day and decided against so she didn't seem to be trying too hard.

It's a figure hugging number, the material soft and clingy. It has long sleeves, but a swooping back that leaves her mostly bare and throws a bra out of the question, and it only comes to about mid-thigh.

Abigail swallows loudly, her stomach fluttering as the realization hits her that _Hannibal Lecter_ picked this dress out for her to wear. To a dinner that only includes the two of them.

Her mind wanders to inappropriate places and she chides herself.

_Certainly _that's _not what he wants. He said he wants to reinvent me. Hannibal Lecter wouldn't risk himself and his freedom just because he wants a go at a teenage girl. _

She runs the fabric of the dress between her fingers.

_This is probably some sort of test, knowing him. I just wish I knew the right answer._

Abigail sits on the edge of the bed, picking at her food and staring at the dress. Hannibal is so hard for her to decipher. If it had been a gift from Will, she would know it was because he thought it would look pretty on her. If it had been from Alana, Abigail would have known it was meant be something to make her feel normal; a beautiful new dress that was supposed to make her feel like an average young woman. But with Hannibal…

She studies the garment appraisingly, trying to see what he saw.

_It doesn't offer much coverage._

_Which means there is no place to hide._

Abigail smiles when she thinks she understands what to do.

She finishes her meal, and then decides to do some more sketching for a while, not wanting to get ready too early and be uncomfortable all day.

Her mind wanders as she draws, another bad habit, and she finds herself thinking about her future. Wondering how long she will be here, and if she ever has any hope of leading a normal life.

Around midday Abigail hears Hannibal open the door downstairs. She panics because she thought she'd have more time to get ready, but slowly that panic subsides as she hears him moving about downstairs.

There are pots and pans clanging around in the kitchen, and Abigail breathes a sigh of relief.

_He's going to prepare dinner before calling on me._

She cleans up the mess of art materials off her bed and starts to prepare. She slips into the silky dress, forgoing any undergarments, and then turns her attention to her hair and make-up.

Abigail wants nothing more than to wrap a scarf around her neck and let her hair hang to cover her ear, but she resists. She pulls her hair into a loose updo, leaving her ear and scar uncovered.

She keeps her make-up light and natural looking and then to finish herself off slips into a pair of strappy, expensive, high heels. She can here Hannibal climbing the stairs and she stands in the middle of the room, trying not to look as tense as she feels.

When he opens the door, his mouth frozen with whatever he was going to say stuck on his lips, Abigail knows she made the right choice.

She feels completely exposed and vulnerable under Hannibal's gaze, which is the perfect ideal for reinvention.

* * *

**Author's Note: **As always, let me know what you think! *SHOW SPOILERS TO FOLLOW* I was eager to get this chapter out after the soul shattering finale yesterday. I _was_ doing okay after the finale, but then I saw this in an interview with Bryan Fuller:

**Fuller:** Originally, we were going to have Hannibal flying away with Abigail Hobbs. When we started talking about it, we said, "Oh, gosh, we brought Miriam back and we're brining Dr. Chilton back — does that seem like too much?" So we just thought, "Well, let's just bring her back and kill her on-screen!" [_Laughs_]

This pretty much destroyed me, because now we see just how close we were to actually having Hannibal and Abigail run off together. JFC Fuller, why must you taunt us! Anyways, anyone else still holding out hope our bby Abi survives again?


	7. Chapter Seven

As Hannibal continues to stand there, still not saying anything, Abigail feels herself start to blush.

"Good evening, Hannibal," she finally says, voice wavering slightly.

_Maybe I misunderstood, _she thinks, almost wishing she had put on a scarf after all.

"Good evening, Abigail," Hannibal replies smoothly, as if nothing is amiss. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. You look nice as well, though that's nothing new," she rambles.

Tonight Hannibal is wearing all black, quite somber compared to his usual bright displays of color.

_We're dressed for a funeral._

As the thought occurs to her, Abigail realizes that in many ways it is correct. Tonight they are celebrating the death of her old life and the birth of her new one.

Like a phoenix she will rise from the ashes, shiny and new.

"Shall we?" Hannibal asks, offering his arm to her.

She takes it unhesitatingly and lets him lead her from the bedroom and downstairs into the dining room.

The table is elaborately set, even moreso than usual, and Hannibal pulls a chair out for her directly across from his place setting.

"Do you need help with anything?" she offers.

"No, of course not. You are the guest of honor, just relax and let me serve you."

Hannibal sweeps away into the kitchen leaving Abigail on her own. Fidgety, she reaches out to inspect the table centerpiece. She recognizes figs and split open pomegranates among the contents, but she can't place the red flowers. She rubs a velvety petal between her fingers.

She swears she recognizes it from _something_.

"Red Anemone," Hannibal pronounces, startling her as he reenters the dining room carrying their first course.

"From Greek mythology," Abigail says, more for herself than Hannibal, releasing the petal.

"You know the story?"

Abigail nods and recounts it as Hannibal serves them.

"Adonis, loved by both Aphrodite and Persephone, was out hunting alone one day when he wounded a fierce boar. Enraged the animal stabbed him with its tusks. Aphrodite heard the cries of her lover and went running to him, but it was too late, and red anemones sprouted from where the drops of Adonis' blood fell."

Hannibal nods approvingly as he takes his seat across from her.

"Christians later adopted the symbolism of the anemone," he adds. "The red representing the blood of Christ. These flowers are often depicted in paintings of the Crucifixion."

_Blood. Death. Resurrection._

_Is everything in his house a metaphor?_

Abigail looks down at her plate and finds a bowl of what looks like mushroom soup. Her face must betray her thoughts because Hannibal chuckles lightly.

"No psychedelic mushrooms this time, Abigail. I assure you."

She smiles sheepishly and picks up her spoon.

"It's delicious," she insists.

They eat in silence, and Abigail can feel Hannibal studying her every move. She is careful to keep her back straight, displaying perfect posture, and tries to hold his gaze whenever she catches him watching, but ultimately ends up being the one to look away first.

When they start on the second course, some type of sausage and pepper dish, Hannibal tells Abigail about his day.

He visited Will in the hospital, and apparently Will is doing remarkably well despite the gunshot wound Jack inflicted. The doctors, however, have discovered that Will is suffering from encephalitis and think that may have been a contributing factor in his erratic behavior.

Abigail listens patiently, but can't help but wonder if Hannibal knew about Will's condition. The way he speaks about it, so casual, makes her think he did know. If he had missed something as big as this, she doubts he would sound so nonchalant.

_He's been planning this for Will for a while now,_ she realizes. _How long has he been planning… whatever this is, for me?_

"What is your plan for me?" she blurts, accidentally interrupting whatever else Hannibal had been saying about Will.

"Sorry," she apologizes. "I just… can't stand this not knowing. You said you wanted to reinvent me. What does that mean? What is wrong with me the way I am?"

Abigail knows she is being dangerously rude, but she's feeling a bit reckless.

Hannibal sips his wine leisurely before responding.

"I do no think there is anything _wrong_ with you, Abigail. I just want you to see what I see. You have so much potential in you. I merely wish to help you unlock it."

She refrains from rolling her eyes at the ambiguous answer.

"What about after that?" she asks. "When you've finished 'unlocking my potential'? What happens? The world thinks I am dead. I can never return to my old life. Am I expected to spend the rest of my days in this house? You said I wasn't a prisoner."

"You aren't a prisoner. I am protecting you."

_Yeah, and yourself,_ she thinks bitterly.

"You will start a new life," Hannibal tells her. "I have a contact who forges records for people. I've already hired him to create one for you. A whole new identity. You will have a history, a birth certificate, passport, and even a social security number. This forger is so good you could apply for a job with the FBI, like you once said you wanted, and they wouldn't be able to prove you were anyone but who you said you were."

Abigail's eyes widen and she feels a small spark of hope in her chest.

"I can start over?"

"Yes, Abigail, you can start over, but you must let me help you first."

They fall back into silence after that, not speaking aside from Hannibal explaining each course and Abigail complimenting it. After they finish dessert, chocolate silk pie with fresh made whipped crème, Hannibal escorts Abigail into his study.

They sit on a loveseat by the fireplace, arms and legs pressed against one another, leaving Abigail feeling even more exposed than earlier. Hannibal's eyes are burning into her and she shivers under their weight.

She looks up to meet his gaze.

"You said you want to help me unlock my potential," she says quietly. "How do you plan to do that?"

Hannibal takes a long time to reply, reaching over to take Abigail's hand, and tracing her fingers with his own. Goosebumps prickle her skin and she finds herself thankful of the long sleeves hiding them.

"Tell me about the girls," he finally answers.

"The girls?"

"The girls you helped your father catch and kill."

"W—what about them?" she asks startled.

"How did you select them?"

"I didn't, he did… because they looked like me."

"Did that make you feel guilty?"

"You know it did," she says, getting angry.

"But not guilty enough to stop?"

Abigail pulls her hand from his.

"If I hadn't helped him, he would have killed _me!_ It was about survival."

"Was killing Nick Boyle about survival?"

"At the time I believed it was," she says quietly.

"How did it feel killing him? Did it make you feel powerful?"

Abigail stands up and walks across the room, her back to Hannibal. She pretends to study the spines of the books on his shelves, trailing a finger across them.

She can hear his footsteps behind her; feel his breath on her neck as he speaks.

"How did it make you feel?"

"I felt vindicated," she answers. "At the time I thought he murdered my best friend."

Turning to face Hannibal, Abigail's breath catches in her throat. He's much closer than she anticipated. She takes an involuntary step backwards, her spine pressed against the bookshelf.

"I suppose I wasn't though, since it was you who killed Marissa," she says.

Hannibal places a hand against the bookshelf, just over her shoulder, and leans in.

"How would you feel killing me then?" he asks, tone low. "Would you feel _vindicated_?"

Abigail swallows loudly as she meets his dark stare.

_Would I? He killed Marissa. He ruined Will's life. He's taken mine._

"I would feel… lonely. Not just because you are the only person who knows I'm still alive, but because you know _me_. You know every dark thing about me and you don't care. You know I'm a monster, but you are still here."

"Some monsters play well with others. Perhaps ours are compatible."

Hannibal leans in even closer, his eyes drifting closed, and Abigail can hear alarm bells ringing in her head.

When his lips graze hers it's like an electric shock zaps through her body. Abigail inhales sharply, her lips parting and giving him the opening he needs to deepen the kiss. Despite her will to not surrender, Abigail's eyes close and she feels herself leaning into Hannibal.

His hand comes up to caress her shoulder and she shivers. Hannibal smiles and nips at her lower lip. He traces his index finger along her collarbone and up to her scar. Her skin burns when he touches the angry slash on her neck and she gasps, her arms flying up automatically to push him away.

She covers her scar with her own hand. She knows it didn't actually hurt when he touched hurt, but it felt like an invasion nonetheless.

"Abigail—" Hannibal starts, voice surprisingly apologetic, but she doesn't wait to hear what he has to say.

Abigail slips past Hannibal and marches upstairs, heading for her room, her head a mess of confused, swirling emotions.

She's pleased that Hannibal doesn't follow her, not sure if she wants to talk to him or not.

_Had he meant what he said about wanting to help me start a new life? Or was it all just a line?_

Abigail closes her door loudly behind her and immediately tears her dress off. She slips back into her robe and seats herself in front of the vanity to take down her hair.

She's just started to clean the make-up from her face when there is a light tapping on her door.

She doesn't answer, but Hannibal opens it anyway, standing formally in the doorway watching her.

"Abigail, please forgive my behavior downstairs. That was extremely rude of me. I never intended for that to happen."

Abigail still doesn't reply.

"I hope you can forgive me. Good night," he says, and closes the door, locking it behind him.

Abigail sighs and stares at her own reflection. It's not that she's mad at Hannibal, not really… she's mad at herself, over her reaction to his kiss.

_How can I stay a step ahead and play this game if I lose myself like that?_

When she climbs into bed she finds herself wondering if he really slipped up when he kissed her, or if this is just another part of his game?

After finally managing to fall asleep, it doesn't take Abigail long to slip into a nightmare; all the talk tonight of the dead girls and Nick Boyle opening old wounds.

She wakes up to Hannibal shaking her. She must have been screaming.

"Abigail! It's just a dream. Wake-up!"

When she finally opens her eyes there are tears streaming down her face and she throws herself into his arms, realizing too late Hannibal is shirtless and she is cuddling his bare chest.

The ghosts of her nightmare linger on her peripheral vision, not daring to attack with Hannibal present.

"Are you all right now?" he asks, stroking her hair.

"Please don't go," she begs, hating her weakness. "Don't leave me with them. Please."

"Shh," he soothes. "I'll stay."

Abigail finds herself snuggled securely against Hannibal's chest once again, blankets pulled up around them. She clings to him, too relieved to be ashamed, and slips into dreamless slumber.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Reviews are much appreciated, as always! On a side note I just wanted to give a heads up I may not get another chapter up next week (though I will try). I'm getting ready to move 1300 miles cross country and my schedule from Monday until next Sunday is a little hectic. I'm also in the process of promoting an original story of mine being published in July. For more information please check out my official website, linked from my profile page. Thank you!


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